Page 81 of The Thought of You

It was one of those moments in a journey of self-discovery that requires the top spot of a highlights section. Before tonight—before I climbed onto my co-worker and gyrated my hips like a hula dancer—I hadn’t realized I’m still on a journey to find myself, but now that I’ve experienced such a phenomenon, it’s hard to say I’m not.

Being on top of Owen, harnessing the power of my body and sexuality to suck him dry, was, in a word, spectacular. I felt things I’d never felt before—raw, thrilling arousal.

I was completely myself, and it seemed to hit all the right buttons for him.

He came while he was still inside me. He’d jerked and pulsed with so much vigor, it was a surprise he’d been able to walk just thirty minutes prior.

He’d turned red and feral, his eyes an even darker shade of green than they were at the end of dinner.

And he held me like I’d run away otherwise.

To be honest, I thought I might want to, but as I fluff my new hair and tame a few of the tangles, I don’t have any itch to flee. There’s no sense of dread in my throat or a wave of nausea through my stomach.

For once, my mind isn’t racing with a million thoughts and responsibilities.

I’m at peace, like this was always supposed to happen between Owen and me. I don’t know how to feel about that, but it’s a contemplation for future me.

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve come to realize I should take it day by day when it comes to Owen. He always surprises me, so it’s useless to try and think ahead.

I use a damp washcloth to dab at the corners of my eyes for the runaway mascara, then apply a thin layer of lip balm before I exit, anticipation singeing my nerve endings as if the last few minutes away from him were enough for me to already miss him.

My heart thumps at the first glance of him.

Owen stands next to the bed as he tugs his shirt in place over his jeans. I catch him just in time for a glimpse of his abs, each hard muscle carved to perfection.

Once the fabric settles into place, I realize he’s fully dressed, shoes and all. He’s even wearing his hat, and while my chest warms with the sight of it on backward, just as he promised, my stomach drops.

He’s clearly ready to go, while I stand in the bathroom doorway in nothing but my tank top and panties. “Are you leaving?”

He turns to face me. “Yes.”

“Oh.” I shift onto my bare right heel. “Right. You should go. Why would you stay in Savannah for the night? It’s not like we should cuddle until the sun rises and enjoy French toast in the morning. You definitely don’t want to come to the spa with me, either. Or maybe you do. Do you like facials?”

Owen rounds the corner of the bed and sits on the edge.

“Because guys can like facials. We all have acne and buildup on our faces. It’s natural,” I continue rambling. “Facials are for everyone.”

Did my voice grow louder? I’m yelling, aren’t I? Although I believe what I’m saying, I don’t know why I’m saying it as if I’m on a soap box, enlightening a room full of judgy people.

“A facial sounds fun.”

“You can come,” I offer and fidget with my hands. “I might add a manicure to my appointment too. I’ve destroyed my cuticles over the last two weeks from all the stress.”

“You deserve to relax,” he says coolly, completely the opposite of how I’m feeling.

I should let him go. We did what we did, and it’s over now. Cuddling and getting breakfast together are two things real couples do, and we are not one.

Or are we?

I’ve never had sex with anyone who wasn’t my confirmed boyfriend, but it feels too neurotic and inappropriate to ask Owen “What are we?” right now.

Or is it very appropriate?

He’s the one who insisted a single night with me wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t be totally out of line if I were to ask.

“I’ll need to head back in the morning to help Lottie at the studio,” he says, thankfully interrupting my emotional spiral. “She’s hosting a special brunch event.”

“A Boozy Brunch—I’ve seen posts for it on social media.”

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